


Out Where The Sand's Turning To Gold

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Out Where The Sand's Turning To Gold

Busiest night of the week, and the bartender doesn’t show.

Gabe tries to be an easy-going boss, as much as he can, but he is going to bust some heads for this. One head specifically, the little rat-fink bartender who didn’t show and left him out here, pouring drinks.

With his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, even. He hates looking this disheveled in front of the house, and the staff. He’s made a point of cultivating a polished look. Man of style. Rising above his origins. A couple of hours of pouring drinks isn’t going to undo all of that, but it might dent it a little, and that gets his back up, is all.

Not to mention, Wentz hisownself put in an appearance tonight, swanning in with that pretty dancing girl on his arm, the one he claims he wants to make an honest woman. Gabe would tell her not to hold her breath, but there’s something sharp in that one’s eyes that makes him think Wentz might be the one who ends up wondering what hit him. The possibility’s entertaining enough to make Gabe hold his hand and wait.

On nights Wentz comes in, he always takes over Gabe’s office, which is all right, of course; he owns the place, Gabe works for him, he can do what he damn well wants to. But usually Gabe is back there with him, sharing a decent Scotch and a good cigar, talking business and speculating on the next word going to come down from the city and the big movers and shakers they don’t talk about by name. Wentz knows things, and Gabe is curious. Enough Scotch and he gets bits and pieces he can start to put together.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he’s stuck behind the bar, and Wentz talks business by sending notes out to him folded up inside the empty glasses that he wants refilled with the Scotch for himself and vodka tonics for his girl. They’re probably doing filthy things on Gabe’s desk. He’s definitely going to bust some heads to make up for tonight.

There is one upside, though. He gets to see the whole evening’s performance from the band.

The Romantics are a pretty sweet little jazz quintet, and the club’s lucky to have them as far as Gabe’s concerned. Not just because he’s the one who sealed the contract, either; it’s not like he’s getting a kickback for that, not from tightwad Wentz. The club’s lucky to have them because the Romantics are _good_. Tending bar tonight means that for once Gabe gets to really hear them.

"Last call, last song," the singer says, touching a finger to the microphone and making it pop softly at the crowd. "For all you lovers out there."

Gabe smiles slightly, reaching for one of the good green bottles in the back. Last call means he can’t watch this song except in glances from the corner of his eye, but he relishes those. Just a single spotlight, the dark figures of the band against the blue velvet curtain, and the singer, standing straight and proud and breathing "My Melancholy Baby" into the microphone.

She’s wearing red sequins tonight, and the shimmer seems to fill the whole club. He sees it even when he turns away, glittering behind his eyes.  
**  
She comes up to the bar when the song ends, while the others are putting their instruments away. Gabe has her drink waiting--he might not tend bar very often, but he pays attention. The details of her nightly rituals are jotted down in a notebook in his desk.

"Gin and tonic," he says, pushing it across the bar to her once she finishes holding court for her public. "One olive." He takes a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and holds it out to her, then lights it and watches her draw the first slow, deep breath, her eyes sliding closed.

"Thanks, Gabe." Her voice is low, husky, perfectly controlled. She smiles crookedly around the cigarette and he sees that her lipstick is smudged, the deep red straying across her cheek. "Alex didn’t show tonight?"

"No."

"Too bad." She takes a sip of her drink and closes her eyes again, shoulders drooping a little. He studies the thick layer of color across her eyelids, wondering how that feels against the delicate skin. "Good night, though? Sales-wise, I mean."

"Real good. You guys bring in a hell of a crowd." He leans against the bar and watches her drink and smoke, ignoring the glasses that need collecting and the dozen things that need to be put away. "Good set."

She shrugs, a short fluid motion. "Good enough." She catches the olive from her drink and bites into it, juice slipping down over her lipstick. Gabe licks his own lips, surprised not to taste anything.

She looks up at him like she wants to say something, like she might. There’s a furrow in her brow like she’s got something eager to come bursting out, and he waits, his chest twisting funny, until it hurts to breathe.

But then her brother walks over from the stage, bleak as an undertaker in his suit. "Gee. C’mon."

She downs the last of her drink and puts the cigarette out in the glass, meeting Gabe’s eyes again with a little smile and another shrug. "Hold your horses, Mikey. I’m coming."

Gabe takes a careful breath as they cross the floor and vanish backstage. Lost moments shouldn’t bother him when they can’t mean anything.

Besides, there's still another ritual, and he sets that up now, pouring a glass of whiskey neat and setting a new pack of cigarettes beside it, with a book of matches. The pack is unopened, and a different brand from the one in his pocket. The whiskey's the ordinary, cheap stuff, not top-shelf like the gin.

He has time to gather all the glassware and wipe down half the bar before another figure emerges from backstage and comes over to take the stool Gee vacated.

"Hey, Gabe." Gerard’s voice is low and tired, a hint of a laugh in it that doesn’t hold much humor. He’s wearing shirtsleeves and suspenders, his hair scraped back off his face with Brylcreem, and he downs half of the whiskey in one long swallow before he breaks the seal on the pack of cigarettes. "Thanks."

"No problem," Gabe says, wiping another stretch of the bar. The light’s not so good over here, but he can see a smudge of cold cream at the curve of Gerard’s jaw, and a hint of deep red at the corner of his mouth where Mikey missed wiping it clean.  
**  
Wentz thinks it’s hilarious, of course. Wentz needs to be punched in the teeth.

"Still carrying a torch for the lovely Geraldine?" he asks when Gabe brings the take from the bar back to count. Wentz is grinning wide as a character in one of the cartoon serials. "It kills me to know you have a heart, Saporta."

"Keep talking, keep talking." Gabe sits down at the desk and starts counting bills, sliding them between his fingers with ease of practice. Ray will be coming back any minute for the band’s pay; Gabe always takes that out first.

"It’s like a fairy tale," Wentz goes on, sprawled out on the couch. His dancer has fallen asleep, her head on his shoulder. "You’re in love with the magic dolly who only exists when the spotlights are on. A regular Disney original."

"On second thought, don’t keep talking."

"Can’t romance a lady who doesn’t really exist, you know."

Gabe _knows_. He bites down on his lip and keeps counting to keep himself from telling Wentz that it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than that.

"I’m in new York all next week," Wentz says, suddenly serious. His moods change like somebody flipped a switch on him. Gabe never really gets used to it, but he’s learned to keep up. "And then I’m going out to Chicago."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business." Gabe glances up to find Wentz is looking at him, narrow-eyed. "All told it’ll be a month before I’m back. I trust you’ll take care of things."

"Don’t I always?"

Wentz smiles again and turns to his girl, brushing his fingers over her face. "Wake up, Ash. Time to go."

Someone knocks on the door and Gabe gets to his feet, leaving Wentz and the girl an illusion of privacy for their sleepy murmurs. In charge of the place for a month. That’ll be nice. He could get used to that sort of thing, if he isn’t careful.  
**  
The first week goes smoothly. Looking back, it goes smoothly enough to make him cocky. He wears his sharpest suits and gets a haircut, holding the close-cropped curls in place with a good helping of Dapper Dan. He comes out and stands at the end of the bar halfway through the evenings, looking out over the club and pretending it’s really his. He signs checks for a few local notables. He lets himself dream a little.

And he watches the Romantics. He stays on the floor long enough for one song, his eyes lingering on Gee’s hands as she gestures around the microphone, sketching out the song in the air. He doesn’t look for the seams in the performance; he’s mesmerized by the whole.

He makes sure that the new bartender has the g & t with a single olive and a single cigarette ready after each night’s set, and he takes care of Gerard’s whiskey and fresh pack himself. Those come out of the petty cash, which Gerard never mentions and neither does he. Wentz has never said anything, either, though Gabe’s pretty sure he knows. It’s a small enough thing to write off in the name of ensuring smooth operation and continued contentment.

If contentment is the word. Gabe wouldn’t necessarily call it that.

He gives in to impulse one night and goes backstage after the set, after Gee has her drink and vanishes through the stage door with Mikey. Ray and Frank and Bob are packing up their cases, bickering quietly about something or other. When Gabe enters they look up, tensing and falling quiet.

Gee is sitting in front of the dressing table, still in her gown--dark blue satin tonight, long-sleeved and high-necked--head tipped back and eyes closed. Mikey is perched on the edge of the table, brow furrowed in concentration, dabbing cold cream on her face and carefully wiping it away. His hands are as light and careful as they are on his bass, and Gabe’s fingers curl into his palms, something unnamed and helpless rising in his throat.

"Mikes," Frank says softly, and Gee and Mikey both look up at him, Gee’s eyes opening slowly and then widening when she sees Gabe. Mikey’s jaw clenches tightly, protectiveness flashing in his eyes until Gee touches his hand. He looks at her then, and something passes between them that Gabe doesn’t understand.

"Let’s go out back and have a smoke," Mikey says, slipping off the table. "C’mon, boys."

The door clicks closed behind them and Gabe swallows, leaning against the wall with a false, studied casual air. Gee turns away from him again, facing the mirror and wiping at her face.

"What can I do for you?" she asks. Her voice is rough, tired, in-between.

"Just wanted to say it was a good show." It sounds weak, meaningless. Not quite believable, and he can see that she doesn’t believe it, one of her eyebrows arching up sharply in the mirror.

"That’s all? Thank you. But that’s all you came back here for?"

He doesn’t answer. She snorts and reaches up, pulling bobby pins from her hairline in sharp, deft gestures until the wig is detached. She sets it on the bust on the dressing table and smooths the hair at the crown.  
The invisible line has been crossed; Gabe can feel it in the air, see it in how Gerard is absolutely Gerard now. It’s in how he holds his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Neither of them speaks as Gerard stands and unzips the dress, stepping out of it and hanging it carefully on the rack. Gabe watches him smooth the fabric and take off the padded undergarments, then the shoes, returning them all to their proper boxes. He gets dressed in street clothes and looks at himself in the mirror, hair mussed, face a bit flushed, just enough of the makeup lingering about his eyes to make them look huge.

"See everything you wanted to see?" Gerard asks sharply. "Got enough freak show for your money?"

Gabe’s protest dies in his throat before he can even think about saying it, buried in a rush of embarrassment and anger, and he turns and walks away without a word.  
**  
The club is dark the next two nights, and Gabe is grateful for it. He spends the first day in bed with a bottle of something or other, and the second day sleeping it off. He spends the next day right up until he has to get dressed and go down to open the doors figuring out how he’s going to behave.

Polite and distant. Formal. Maybe a little cold. It had been a mistake to reach out, obviously, that’s all. Or at any rate, he’d done it wrong. It didn’t matter, it was done with, and he would just have to maintain a good face. He can’t imagine the Romantics will extend their contract now, which will put a knot in Wentz’s tail, but he’ll deal with that when it comes around.

He doesn’t go out on the floor that night, staying in his office and ignoring the telephone. He smokes a whole pack of cigarettes and drinks half a bottle of bad whiskey, until the numbers in his ledger swim in front of his eyes.

He rests his head in his hands, fingers fanned over his eyes. His thoughts are a confused, jumbled swirl, his breath aches in his chest, and it takes him more than a minute to realize that he sounds have changed. The door is open.

He lifts his head and finds himself staring at two guys with guns, both aimed at his head.

"I’m not Wentz," he says, the words thick and clumsy on his tongue.

"We know," says the one on the left.

"He didn’t make any friends in New York," says the one on the right. Gabe swallows slowly, staring at the guns. His life is going to end right here, right now, his brains blown out over the desk. It doesn’t make any sense.

"We just need to send him a message to that effect," the one on the left continues, and Gabe clutches at the edge of the desk, trying to brace himself so he can go out with some semblance of dignity. He won’t beg, that’s for damn sure, he won’t--

Gee steps into the doorway behind the goons, wearing bright green satin like an absinthe dream. She has a bottle in one hand, and a cigarette between her lips, and she’s dressed like sin, but she still looks like an angel as far as Gabe’s concerned.

She freezes for a beat, the cigarette almost slipping to the floor, her eyes going wide. Then she hefts the bottle easily in her hand and swings it, bringing it into hard, solid contact with the back of Righty’s head.  
He goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Lefty whirls to face her, gun sketching a wild arc, and Gee jabs her cigarette into his face. He yells and somehow that spurs Gabe forward, across the desk in a clumsy flop that gets him close enough to grab at the gun and knock it away into the corner.

Lefty takes off running, clutching at his face and leaving Gabe and Gee to stare at each other. Gabe’s stomach is churning and Gee is…

Gee is smiling. It’s more than a little manic, but it’s a definite smile.

"Aw, shit," she says. He nods slowly, stupidly, and she starts to laugh. "C’mon. We’ve gotta run." She hurries over to the corner, squinting down at the dust and shadows until she finds the gun. "C’mon. Move it."

And they’re running.  
**  
He assumes she’ll want to get her brother and her band, but she just drags him out the back door, gripping his arm tightly in one hand and Lefty’s gun in the other.

"They’ll figure it out," she says, hurrying down the alley. "The boys. We have a plan for this kind of thing. A rendezvous point. They’ll have the car there waiting, but not until tomorrow morning. C’mon. This way."

He’s still drunk, his head spinning and his stomach twisting helplessly, but he can zero in on bits and pieces of that. "Why do you _need_ a plan and a rendezvous point?"

Gee stops and looks back at him for a moment. She tucks the gun down the front of her dress, then leans against the wall and reaches down to undo her shoes. "You don’t think the Romantics are playing your shitty dive club because we _couldn’t_ do better, do you?"

He scowls. "It’s not a shitty…"

"You think I’m in drag because I like it?" She makes a face, collecting her shoes in one hand and fishing the gun out of her dress again. "Well. I do like it. But it’s more complicated than that."

"Apparently so," he mutters, following her as she takes off down the street again, running up on her toes, nylons tearing against the pavement and her dress shimmering under the streetlights. He has no idea where they’re going, but what else is he going to do but follow her, his fairy-tale creature, wherever she might go?

She takes him to a little apartment building a few blocks away. Instead of the front door, they go up the fire escape and in through the window of one of the rooms in the back.

"You live here?" he asks. It’s too dark to see much, but he can tell there’s few pieces of furniture and fewer of the bits and pieces that people collect as part of life.

"Me and Mikey." She takes a pack of cigarettes from by the stove and lights one, exhaling smoke with a relieved sigh. Some quiet little part of his mind that isn't still awash in booze and confusion notes that it's the brand he makes sure is always fully stocked behind the bar. Gerard's brand. "He won’t come back here tonight. We’ll meet him at the car in the morning."

"And then?"

She shrugs, boosting herself up to sit on the table. "Have to get out of town. All of us."

"What about the club?"

She gives him a look that says pretty clearly that he’s an idiot. He can’t argue. "I imagine New York’s going to come down pretty hard on the club."

"Shit." He leans against the wall and covers his face with his hand. "I’ve got to warn everyone. My staff. I can’t let them walk into--"

"Gabe." Her voice is firm, and when he looks up at her she’s pointing the cigarette at him sternly. "You left an unconscious goon wearing a sharp suit with a gun in his hand on your office floor. I think they’ll figure it out. They’re not stupid, and most of them have worked for Wentz for a long time. Or at least long enough to be able to tell the others to get lost quick." He stares at her for a long moment, until she cocks her head to the side and frowns. "What?"

He shakes his head and looks down, choking on trying to articulate what's in his head. It's too much of a mess. He needs an alternative, and clutches blindly at the first thing to come to mind. "How are you so familiar with all of this?"

She laughs and turns away, taking a last drag on the cigarette and then putting it out on the counter next to the stove. "Oh, well. That's a complicated question."

"We've got all night."

That stops her for a minute, standing still in the dim light and rubbing her thumb against the burn mark on the counter. "True. True." She looks back over her shoulder at him and his breath stutters in his chest all over again. Fuck. "Let me get out of these clothes and then I'll tell you a story, huh?"

And maybe it's because he can't breathe quite right, or maybe it's because it's still only been a few hours since he had two guns pointed at his head, but something makes him lick his lips and ask her, "You need any help with that?"

He isn't sure which of them is more surprised that he asked, or for that matter, that she answers. "Yeah. Sure, if you...Yes." She nods, her hair falling down a little around her face, her eyes terribly wide in the faint light. "This way."  
**  
The bedroom is tiny and even darker, windowless. She turns on the bedside lamp and he realizes that it probably used to be a storage room, or a closet, and it's only a bedroom by virtue of the fact that there's a cot against the wall and the little table beside it. Two cardboard boxes sit beside the foot of the bed, clothes piled messily in both. Nothing pretty, nothing bright; all of her dresses stay at the club. This is where Gerard lives.

"Mikey sleeps out on the couch," Gee says, breaking the silence. "I offered to trade off with him, but he doesn't sleep so well sometimes, and he goes out walking. Said he didn't want to chance waking me up."

Gabe isn't entirely sure that's a smart idea, going out walking in the early hours around here, especially for someone who might or might not have New York after them. But what does he know, it's none of his business, and anyway, he's got no reason to think Mikey Way can't take care of himself.

"Can you unzip me?" Gee asks. He looks at her, and while her voice was steady when she spoke, there's an anxious, frozen cast to her face, and her hands aren't quite steady as she reaches up to fumble with the catch at the back of her collar.

He nods and she turns away, ducking her head to bare her neck. He's careful not to touch her skin, only the zipper as he guides it down, exposing the pale line of flesh down to the undergarments. The zipper goes all the way down to her tailbone, and he tries not to react at all, to keep his breathing and his hands steady as he parts the fabric.

"Thanks," she says softly, lifting her head, and he steps back just as she looks back over her shoulder at him, her eyes so wide. "I...you don't need to stick around if you don't want to, I can..."

"Do you have any of that stuff here?" She frowns in puzzlement, and he stumbles to clarify, his hands making helpless sketches in the air. "The...cream and stuff. To take the makeup off?"

"Oh." A blush rises in her face and she looks away, rubbing the back of her neck and losing her grip on the front of the dress, letting it drop a little. "No. We don't keep any of that here. I'm not..."

"I'll get a cloth." He's backing up even as he says it, moving toward the door, and he sees the flash of hurt in her eyes again, just like that night backstage. "A wet cloth? It won't be as good, but..."

"Yeah." She nods and turns away again, letting the dress fall and stepping out of it. He stops in the doorway, staring at the pale lines of her, the something unique and beautiful that she holds on to even in the flat light.

"Hey," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and she cocks her head, even though she doesn't look at him. "Hey, I..." The words die in his throat, and he stops to swallow, silently cursing himself.

"What?" she says softly, still staring at the far wall. "I'm sorry, you know, I didn't mean to...but you _asked_."

"No. Don't be sorry." He sighs and swallows again, digging his fingers into his palm and forcing himself to stand a little straighter. "I wanted to say you're beautiful. Amazingly beautiful."

She turns to look at him then, her eyebrows darting up in surprise, but he's already moving for the door, and out, and gone, hurrying down the hall to the kitchen.

He searches half of the drawers looking for towels, his heart hammering so hard in his chest that he can hardly see and honestly couldn't guarantee that he didn't go right past them once or twice in his clumsy searching. Eventually, though, he finds one that's fairly clean, if worn most of the way through, and he wets it in the sink, squeezing the water out and staring at the way the drops streak the metal of the basin. He can't think. It might be that he's not letting himself, or it might be that he's really not able, he couldn't say. He can't entirely blame the alcohol, or anything else on its own.

It's been a hell of a night.

When he looks up, Gerard is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing dark trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, the wig gone and his hair falling forward over his eyes and an uncertain smile that's mainly just a twist of his lips. His face is still painted, but it's definitely Gerard, the posture and cautious movements unmistakable.

"I can take that." He nods at the cloth. "You can go out and sleep on the couch, I'm sure you're tired. I'll take care of that and get out of the way quick as I can."

Gabe shakes his head, twisting the cloth between his fingers. "You'll make a mess of it," he mutters. "Sit down, I'll do it."

"It's really not a problem."

Gabe shakes his head again, and Gerard sighs as he gives in, walking over to the table and taking a seat. "Besides," Gabe says as he moves to stand in front of Gerard, in the open vee of his legs. "You promised me a story."

"I did?"

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath and reaches out, wiping the brilliant red from Gerard's lips, leaving it streaked across the towel like blood. It takes three hard strokes to clear it, and Gerard winces at the rough fabric. Gabe doesn't bother to apologize, just turns the cloth to a clean section and starts to wipe the blush from Gerard's cheek. "You did."

"All right." Gerard is quiet for a moment, eyes unfocused, wincing again as Gabe presses hard to budge the paint and powder. "We're from upstate, originally."

"You and Mikey?"

"All of us. Right near the city. We knew guys, in the city. You know, guys who...know people. We grew up with them." He shrugs slightly, thin shoulders rolling under the worn fabric of his shirt. "Sometimes when we needed money, they could throw some work our way. Help us out."

He can see the outline of the rest of the story without her saying another word, but he just turns the cloth again and moves to her other cheek, frowning in concentration.

"And then we needed a little more money, and our luck ran out." Gerard shrugs again, his eyes fixed either on a square of linoleum or somewhere very far away. "I guess it's not that long a story after all. Or that interesting of one."

"That's not the whole story, either, is it?" He touches the corner of Gerard's eye, and Gerard's chest hitches with a rough breath before he closes his eyes, baring his lids. Gabe studies the thick color and goes over to the sink to wet the cloth again, watching the colors run out of it and streak the basin.

"There are _details_." Gerard's voice comes out sharper, pissy, irritation clear in it and in the lines of his back where he's sitting on the table. He swings his feet, kicking at the air. "You want details?"

"Sure."

"Kind of a nosy shit, aren't you?"

"Should know that about me by now." Gabe comes back over and takes his position between Gerard's legs again, waiting for him to close his eyes. "But, I don't know, I thought we were kinda friends."

Gerard looks up at him, jaw set tightly, eyes dark. "Kinda friends, huh?"

"What did you think we were?"

Gerard holds his gaze for a long moment, then looks away, a flush rising in his cheeks. "I have no idea."

Gabe is still for a minute, letting that roll through him, then reaches for Gerard's face again. "Let me get your eyes, huh?"

They're both quiet for a few moments, while Gabe strips the greasepaint from Gerard's eyelids and Gerard breathes in an uncertain rhythm. He doesn't speak until Gabe steps away to rinse out the cloth again.

"There's a body in a swamp in Jersey with a bullet in the chest."

Gabe scrubs the bottom of the basin until the metal gleams dully. "With your name on it?"

"Mikey's." Gerard swings his feet again, kicking the table legs. "There's another body, over the state line in Pennsylvania, that has my knife in its throat."

"I'm guessing there's a cause and effect between the two."

Gerard nods, pushing his hair back off his forehead and jumping down from the table. He walks over to the cigarettes by the stove, lighting one with slow, reverent ritual before he looks at Gabe again. "So. We had to disappear."

"And you drew the short straw of going into disguise?"

"Wasn't a short straw. I told you, I like it. I mean, I like _this_ , but in general. I love disguises." Gerard smiles slightly around the cigarette and exhales a thick cloud of smoke. "I love hiding in plain sight. I love...having the upper hand, I guess. All those people who see me, they _think_ they see me. They think they know everything because their eyes tell them so. They think they get a whole story in a glance. They don't know shit. They only know what I give them, and I'm safe, back here." He taps the side of his head, light and quick, then takes another drag. "All the world's a stage, or some shit like that, right? And I'm doing the lights and the curtains. I've got the master hand. They're all...puppets. And they don't even know it."

Gabe nods slowly, twisting the towel between his hands. "I think I get what you mean."

"It even worked on you." Gerard smirks a little, a sharp expression without much humor and with an edge of cruelty in it, though Gabe can't tell if the cruelty is aimed at Gerard himself or at him. "You thought I was _beautiful_ , when I dressed up. You saw what I wanted you to see. You were fooled."

"No."

Gerard arches an eyebrow, dangerous, and takes the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling more smoke. Gabe watches the arc the cherry draws in the air. "No? 's what you said in there, before."

"You weren't listening very well." Gabe pushes off the counter and moves toward the door, passing just close enough to Gerard to brush shoulders. "Or maybe I wasn't talking clearly."

"So talk to me now. Clarify."

Gabe stops and looks at him, from closer than he ever has, a breath away, close enough to touch Gerard's face. "You're beautiful when you're her. And you're beautiful right now. You're just beautiful. All the damn time." He shrugs, and it hurts, the movement forcing itself past muscles that are suddenly so tight they ache. "As far as I'm concerned, anyway. Goodnight."  
**  
It's early enough in the morning that it could still be called night when Gerard shakes him awake. Gabe jerks out of an uneasy dream and sits up, hands automatically moving to his face, rubbing against his temples and pressing over his eyes and generally making sure everything's still where it ought to be, nothing's been blown out by bullets.

"We need to get going," Gerard says softly, and Gabe nods, still covering his face. "The guys will be waiting with the car."

"Can I piss and have a smoke?"

Gerard laughs a little. "You can even have some coffee."

"You're a kind man."

"Don't know if I'd go that far." Gerard's fingers curl around Gabe's wrist, guiding one hand and then the other away from his face. He's kneeling beside the couch, looking into Gabe's eyes, and they're as close as they were the night before, close enough to touch, to feel each other's breath.

"We both said a lot of things last night," Gerard says. Gabe waits, refusing to look away, refusing to brush anything off or apologize.

"And I just..." Gerard falters, biting his lower lip and glancing away for a moment before meeting Gabe's eyes again, frustration creeping into his voice. "I just..."

"You just what?" Gabe prompts, because if this goes on for too long it might cut into that margin for coffee.

"Well, we're gonna be on the road together for a while, and I'd hate for any of those things to get in the way of getting along."

"Like what, specifically?"

Gerard gives a sharp huff of breath. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that, Saporta?"

"Like I said, thought we were friends, thought you knew that already."

" _Christ_." Gerard exhales again and leans in, pressing his mouth to Gabe's in a hard, fast, dry kiss before sitting back again. "There. Jesus."

Gabe looks at him for a moment, then reaches out, slowly and deliberately. Gerard doesn't flinch away, even when Gabe touches his face, tracing his cheekbone. "That the best you can do?"

"Oh, fuck you," Gerard growls.

Gabe fights a smile. "Cause if it's just going to be like that, it's going to be a hell of a long drive to California."

"Who said anything about California?"

"It's seasonable this time of year."

"It is, is it?" Gerard laughs, shaking his head. "Should've realized you were going to take all the plans right out from under me."

"Hey, I'm a guy with ideas."

Gerard smiles, raising an eyebrow, and Gabe can see a hint of Gee in it, a flicker of stage light. "What kind of ideas?"

Gabe takes a breath and leans in slowly, seeking Gerard's mouth again. He's going to do this right, this time. Make it the first of many. "I think we'll have plenty of time to figure that out on the drive."  



End file.
